Fire and Steel
by Daleksdoctor
Summary: Hawkeye convinces the Colonel to sear the tattoo off her back, but what is she really asking of him? Early!Royai - lots of fluff, angst, and heartache from the characters who make me wish I was dead.


He never should have become the Flame Alchemist.

Or at least, that was how he felt sometimes. _Especially_ now.

Roy Mustang faced a pretty red door, though the color soon nauseated him, reminding the Colonel all too much of what he was about to do. What he _promised_ to do. What _she_ wanted him to do. Shit. Did it make any difference?

He thought about circling the block again, just to make it an even, eight times in a row. Eight times, eight postponements. The more he walked just made him afraid, however, and so he remained static upon these porch steps - waiting it seemed like. Waiting for what? Waiting for a changed mind? For a revelation? A sign from God that confirmed this wretched agenda as _wrong_? If that was the case, then what was God waiting for? Had he not already _done_ his duty? Had he not been a loyal soldier? Was the Colonel to endure even _more_ of this cursed responsibility?

_Well?_

Was he?

Silence.

_Of course_.

A few, quiet moments passed, and Roy found himself smiling then, still on the Lieutenant's doorstep. It wasn't a true grin of course - merely a twisted farce that fell all too short of the real thing. No… it's just that he had been silly. What a juvenile wish, to wish for God's deliverance. What a child-like instinct, to pray for help from something so unseen. But then again, maybe he still _was _a child inside.

Feeling his skin crawl at the thought, the Colonel raised a bare hand and gently knocked four times on the house door. Four times - not three, in secret homage to the number of letters in _her_ first name. He didn't ever address the Lieutenant so casually, but Roy often found himself mouthing the strange syllables together in private, merging them with precision and tasting how they felt upon his lips. If he was ever to pray again, he decided, he would simply remember this moment and let the curious sensation of her honey-coated name pour into his soul. Then, maybe his prayers wouldn't seem so futile after all. Or was it merely the mention of the Lieutenant that would give him strength? Either way…

The door opened with a slow ease that gracefully plucked Roy out of his jumbled thoughts. The wooden door creaked slightly, and his head jerked up to see the Lieutenant standing there, the light from inside illuminating her cropped hair into a perfect halo of gold. He ignored the way his body both felt hot and cold just _looking_ at her, as if it couldn't decide on whether his feelings of relief or dread were more dominant… more important - or at least, more practical. He disregarded any superfluous feeling of this nature until his weary eyes finally found what they were looking for - what they were always looking for when he felt this utterly lost.

His home.

"Hello, Colonel," Hawkeye pronounced carefully.

Roy stifled a sigh then, denying his anxious heart the comfort her voice brought him.

_Riza._

"Lieutenant."

Riza's bronze eyes peered at him with a tender expression, her features soft and awake with an innocence that brought him back to the long days he spent shadowing her father. "Where's your uniform?"

"Back at the office, where I left it," Mustang explained carefully. "I changed at work. Is that okay?"

Mustang just wished that she hadn't noticed in the first place. He wanted to say more then, like how it wouldn't feel right for him to bear the military's colors while burning the skin away from her body, or how if he was going to do this for her, he would perform this act as a willing man - as himself, and _not_ a dog of the military.

Meanwhile, Hawkeye's stare had never relented. Mustang did not look away from her persistent gaze, though he felt like squirming under the unnatural silence that had descended between them. It was if her childlike eyes were stripping him bare, caring nothing for his clothes and skin and blood as they searched all over his face, for some sign of hesitance, perhaps. If so, Roy was determined not to show her any. He held his position and did his best not to notice how long and thick her eyelashes were.

But then, Hawkeye smiled unexpectedly, alleviating a margin of his paranoia. "It's fine, Colonel. Really. Also, nice suit."

Mustang forced out a half-hearted smirked and grabbed the lapels of the sleek coat with his fingertips. "What? This old thing?" he teased lightly. "Why ever waste an opportunity to look important and powerful?"

Hawkeye nodded slowly in approval, pieces of short, blond hair falling about her temples. She leaned away from the entrance, propping it more open so that he was able to step through with ease. After shutting the door behind him, however, Mustang swallowed dryly and felt his nerves suddenly set ablaze with new anxiety. He turned to face Hawkeye again, who waited patiently while he removed the heavy jacket from his shoulders only to throw it over the back of a nearby chair.

Their eyes met once more, and he sighed quietly to himself, seeking to expel the pent up tension in his face. Dark circles plagued the area below her eyes, he noted, just above a light dusting of brown freckles.

"Tired?"

Hawkeye nodded again. "Yes, sir."

"Good. It'll be easier that way."

She didn't answer, and Mustang felt a pang of shame at his poor choice in words. "Lead the way, Lieutenant," he decidedly tacked on.

As she turned away from him, Mustang thought he saw Riza's mouth form another smile, though the stiff set of her shoulders as she strut towards her bedroom was enough to make him doubt what it is he thought he saw. The room was exquisitely clean, Roy noted - almost obsessively, though the lack of personal items surprised him. The whole chamber was practically immaculate, save for the endless amount of firearms mapped out atop the main dresser, each intricate piece gleaming and proud, if quiet.

_Sort of like Riza, actually._

When Mustang realized he was being watched, he instinctively clasped his hands together and strode over to a wooden where fresh towels and cloths had been prepared. The evidence of Hawkeye's readiness repelled him, and the perpetual frown he wore deepened even further, seemingly etching the harsh lines around his mouth permanently into his flesh.

"You're still sure?"

Her voice rang out clear and cool behind him. "Yes, sir."

Roy pressed his lips together. "Very well. I'll need you to discard your shirt, then. I'll have to re-read each passage on the tattoo for reference, and then after, we'll outline what I'm going to destroy with some sort of pen or marker, if you have any. It won't be necessary for me to burn the whole thing."

"Understood."

Mustang felt cold. How willing she was to do this! How strong and resolute her mind must be to accept this pain! It bewildered him, but more than that, it was humbling. Here was a woman horrifically violated, willing to _fix_ the thing most forced upon her. Could the same ever be said of him?

He swallowed thickly.

"Hawkeye?"

She seemed to pause at the changed tone of his voice. "… Sir?"

But the words wouldn't come out. He wanted to say so much, but what could possibly suffice at such a fragile time like this? Roy wanted her to know how brave she was. He wanted to confess the depth of his admiration for all the decisions that brought her here. It felt like the sentences were piling up inside him, only to dissipate into a bloated cloud of itchy nothingness. His soul slowly turned to steel in those moments of silence, and he hated himself for it.

"I'll be back with some other supplies," Mustang mumbled as he finally strode out of the room.

He stumbled upon the kitchen almost immediately, unaware that his own feet had carried him there by instinct. Instinct was all he had left, Roy supposed. He knew how to burn and he knew how to destroy. But to burn and to destroy with _care_ as his guide?

Grabbing a large bowl from the pantry, Mustang began to fill it with the coldest water he could get from the tap. When full, he then made his way towards the nearest bathroom, quickly retrieving a fresh package of bar soap and returning only to toss the cream-colored lump into the chilled liquid. His hands were trembling, he noticed, and Roy ran the nervous digits through the mess of his midnight hair, not caring how unkempt it must have looked.

_Can this kind of alchemy _ever_ be used with care as its general motive? Love, even?_

_Maybe_. Snagging a fresh hand-cloth on his way out of the kitchen, the Colonel cradled the heavy water in the crook of his elbow as he made his way back to Hawkeye. It had been several minutes, and Mustang kept his eyes downcast as he neared the door at last, though he raised a hand to knock against the frame next to him.

"Lieutenant? Can I come in?"

"I'm decent… sort of," he heard her answer. Mustang could detect a certain shyness in her tone, and he entered.

Lifting his gaze, he politely noted the Lieutenant waiting for him across the room, her back naked and facing him. She stood with both arms clasped to her chest, each shoulder bowing slightly with the task of covering herself. Mustang successfully kept his neutral expression in place as he set the bowl of water down, disregarding the clammy feel of his palms on the smooth plastic.

"There should be a marker in the drawer."

"Right." Mustang yanked open the table's drawer below the bowl and found a myriad of writing utensils. He chose the only black marker there and then shut it again before closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps.

Roy was hesitant in his approach, each movement stiff with obvious reluctance. He seemed to loom over Hawkeye as each foot came to a standstill only inches behind her slender frame. Had she always been that short, or was it just the context in which both persons were placed?

Wordlessly, Mustang proceeded to observe the curve of her hips in an idle fashion. The muscles there were tight and toned, and the blue pajama trousers she wore cinched easily around her waist. The Lieutenant's skin almost glowed in the room's artificial light, though the red ink from her tattoo created an ominous contrast indeed, resembling channels of blood upon every area of porcelain flesh it touched.

_Damn that man._

"I'm here," he soothed quietly. "Should we start now?"

Riza brushed each lip across the tops of her knuckles then. "If you don't mind."

"Of course." Mustang cleared his throat. "So, this shouldn't take long. I'm just going to highlight the most vital parts of your father's research, which is obviously where I'll have to burn you. The damage should be minimal that way, and the rest of the tattoo will be useless. That's where this comes in," he said while hoisting out the marker for her to see. "By physically sectioning off the crucial bits, I'll be able to concentrate where it actually _matters_ instead of trying to focus on everything at once."

"And that'll be easier for you?" she asked without turning.

"Yes. I want to be as precise as I can with this." Tugging off the marker cap, Mustang proceeded to stuff the plastic bit into his pant's pocket. "And, Hawkeye, if it's too uncomfortable at _any_ point then you need to let me know," he gently commanded. "I don't want to hurt you." A beat passed, and Mustang hoped with a _fervency_ that she hadn't heard the double meaning there. "Understand?"

"I'll be fine, sir."

"Good. I'm going to touch you now," he warned.

The air between them was then filled with a brief silence, and Mustang reached out slowly, gliding his hands over the span of Hawkeye's shoulder blades. He felt her muscles bunch up instantly. They tightened like steel cord beneath velvet, though he pretended not to notice as he quickly scanned over her father's research.

"How long did you request for leave?" he then probed, if only to distract her from the moment.

Hawkeye acquiesced willingly. "Five days. Did you not see the memo I put in?"

"Is it along with the rest of my paperwork?"

"Yes."

"Then no."

Mustang smirked when he saw a cheek raise, as if she was grinning herself. "The thoroughness of your procrastination is remarkable, Colonel."

His smirk widened generously, temporarily dissolving the frown lines around his mouth. "We aim to please," he drawled. When the tension around his hands unexpectedly loosened, Roy began tracing a passage of text with his black marker. The ink stained her flesh easily, darkening each crimson letter to midnight while he worked in quick strokes. "Five days, eh? That's it?"

"A full week seemed excessive."

"I would have given you two."

Hawkeye sighed. "Who _else_ is going to make sure that your paperwork gets done?"

"Good point." Mustang paused, taking an instant to scribble out a small diagram. "Although, there's only so much I can do with an injured subordinate, so feel free to take off as much time as you need. Havoc is pretty used to doing whatever I tell him, anyways. _He_ could always do it."

"Personally, I think he'd rather quit smoking."

"You think?"

"You _don't_?"

Mustang resisted the urge to tousle his own hair and instead, kept tracing. "Ah, shit. You're probably right. How depressing is that? I can't even get my own men to do my bidding. Some Fuhrer I'll make."

Riza's shoulders shook with quiet laughter. "Maybe by then, you will have actually _finished_ the paperwork."

"God, I hope so."

"For _all_ our sakes," she topped. A snort from the Colonel was her reward.

"Almost done," he murmured tiredly. "You hanging in there alright?"

"I'm fine, Colonel."

A noise of satisfaction slipped through closed lips, and Mustang soon restored his gaze back to the wholesome body beneath his hands. They had already warmed, he noticed, as each calloused fingertip continued to press into all the grooves and crevices of her muscles. Just a few more outlines and then…

"Done."

Hawkeye visibly relaxed at his words, her entire frame sagging with the release of static energy. "You were didn't take long at all."

Mustang shrugged awkwardly, though she wasn't able to see him do it. "I remembered it from last time."

A pause. "Where will the scars be?" she then wondered aloud.

"The most prominent ones will be on your left shoulder blade. From here… to here." Mustang used his free hand to touch her where he meant.

"And the right side?"

Mustang was astonished at how casual she sounded while asking these questions. "Well, there are two bits on the right as well, but they're smaller in comparison and shouldn't be too much trouble to get rid of. Those passages are the only ones that explain how the oxygen process works in correlation to the spark made by my gloves. The rest won't matter then, and the whole tattoo will be rendered useless without the parts I already outlined."

"So, four marks then," she echoed. "Four flames?"

"Yes, that should suffice. Four."

_And there's that number again._

"Thank you for doing this, Roy."

_Roy?_

Under normal circumstances, the Colonel would have blushed at the casual use of his name. How strange it was to hear it used in such a tender manner by the same woman he was to burn!

How… _thrilling_.

Mustang smiled grimly at her as she turned halfway to face him. "Enough, Lieutenant. If you still feel like it after this is all over… well, thank me then. For now…" His gaze flicked over to the bed beside them, and he sighed.

"It would be easiest for me if you were to lay down," he said impassively. "I don't want to have to rely on the mattress for my support."

To be honest, he expected defiance. Or, at the very least, an accusing glare. Nevertheless, Hawkeye only eyed him speculatively before nodding. She strode over to the bedpost without a single word or complaint, and Mustang averted his gaze, allowing the Lieutenant the privacy she needed to settle.

So this was it. The entire night had been building up to this, and now, the moment had finally come. A wave of cold fear washed over the Colonel's spine, but he continued to breathe evenly until any physical trace of his panic had dispelled. _No_, he told himself. _I'm in control, here_.

Another breath, and then, "Hawkeye?" He heard a slight rustling sound, as if something elastic was being dragged across the bedsheets.

"All set, sir."

_Brave heart, Roy._

"Good," he replied while advancing upon the domineering cot. Hawkeye had settled on her front and was positioned at the opposite end of the mattress, so that Mustang could account for her face. The golden-haired woman leaned on her forearms, and she tentatively clutched onto a white pillow in front of her - the source of the papery noise, he presumed. When the Lieutenant looked up at him with that same neutral patience from before, he felt almost disarmed. How could she be so composed about all this?

_Trust. That was all. She _trusts_ me._

A deep admiration for the girl unexpectedly bloomed inside his chest, and Roy permitted every inch of his being to become saturated with its profound lightness. He delayed the peaceful moment then, watching how the steady rise and fall of her shoulders mirrored his own, or how delicate her features really were, especially now, without the razor-sharp focus she was so known for in the workplace. Just… _seeing_.

Seeing her for the very first time, it felt like.

Mustang progressed to retrieve the kitchen hand-cloth from his pant's pocket. Twisting it several times, he waited until the fabric warped into a cone of sorts before extending it out to Hawkeye.

She didn't protest, but merely eyed the thing apprehensively. "Sir?" But Mustang persisted, however, and smiled sadly when the Lieutenant seized the ominous thing.

"To bite down on," he explained warily. Hawkeye arched an eyebrow at him but said nothing.

"Just in case. Imagine if the neighbors walked in on us like this." And to his relief, Hawkeye smiled.

"Well, then, it's a good thing that the police are already here."

Mustang chuckled without difficulty. "Hm. Clever." While eyeing the traces of black marker that coated her torso, the Colonel ran both hands through the mess of his midnight hair.

"I need you to be as still as possible, Lieutenant. Hold onto something if you must. This will also be quick, but it'll be hard as well."

As she grabbed ahold of her pillow, Mustang thrust both hands into his pant's pocket once more until he felt the familiar texture of his gloves. Hawkeye watched calmly as he tugged them on, fitting them snugly around each wrist in a fluid motion. The Colonel took one last step towards the bed until he was undoubtedly towering over the Lieutenant's narrow body, and swallowed.

"Ready?"

Still propped on her forearms, Hawkeye nodded curtly and shut her eyes. Her hands clenched into fists on either side of the fluffy cushion.

"I'm ready. Do it."

She was ready.

Was he?

Mustang inhaled deeply and lifted a hand, all the while unable to keep his teeth from clenching together.

_Now!_

He snapped his fingers together. The smell of sulfur filled his nostrils, and Mustang resisted the urge to vomit while he watched as Hawkeye jerked in pain. The violent spasms racked up and down her whole body, and Roy watched in horror as a small piece of her torso bubbled into a furious red color. He knew that the Lieutenant was the worst pain imaginable. He knew that each and every nerve of her torso was in sheer agony. He knew all this of course, and as her head bowed down upon the pillow she gripped, Mustang awaited the screams that would forever torment his thoughts.

But, she did not make a sound.

Mustang snapped his fingers again again, this time training his gaze on the small diagram from before. The sound of her skin sizzling soon filled his ears, and bile quickly filled the acridness that was his mouth. It was simply unbearable to watch. As Hawkeye's body burned before him, the Colonel felt a piece of his own self burn away with her.

Still, her lips gave nothing away.

"Hold on, Lieutenant," he plead desperately.

Another snap of the fingers set her body ablaze once more. She buried her face deeper into the pillow, each short and ragged breath hitching in the air while her muscles seized over and over again. Mustang couldn't _stand_ it. The quiet between them was even more intolerable than if she were to cry and beg for him to stop - at least that he could have understood. But her silence spoke more to him than a thousand howls of pain, and the seconds passing by carved a bottomless shadow into his soul.

A shadow composed of four, single letters.

One last marker to go. Mustang tensed, casting his weary gaze upon the largest smudge left.

The smudge on her left side.

_Steady, Roy. Focus._

He breathed in quickly, every frantic thought of his a wordless prayer.

Snap.

And then it was over. Mustang tore off his gloves with cold disgust, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. His long legs rushed to where the bowl of tap water was waiting, and he messily fumbled with the cotton towels she'd placed out for him. They shook fiercely through his trembling fingers, however, and the Colonel nearly swore at how long it took to compose himself.

"Are you still with me, Lieutenant?" Mustang clutched the dripping towels in his hands, purposely striding once more over towards the bed. The burned woman stirred slightly at his words, her erratic breathing the only response she was willing to give.

Mustang went cold with fear. "Lieutenant? Are you alright?" He hastily seated himself beside her, his thigh resting next to both tremoring shoulders. They vibrated in short increments, as if she was cold and shivering, though he knew it was quite the opposite. "I need you to answer me, Lieutenant," he plead.

Nothing.

"Lieutenant, _come on_!"

And then, the Colonel noticed her fingers relenting from their pillow, unfurling at a slow and tentative pace. They looked pale and waxy - fake, even, while the rest of her neck relaxed in the same manner. Hawkeye finally lifted her head after several, difficult moments, and Mustang breathed out a long sigh of relief as she graciously swiveled her gaze to meet his.

There, reflected back through her eyes, was his own panic. The usual light and focus from her gaze had faded, leaving an emptiness he hadn't seen since their last day together in Ishval.

No, this was something new. Her vacant expression stilled him, slowing his heart and changing his blood into ice.

"I should clean your wounds as soon as possible," he croaked. The dryness hadn't yet left his mouth and Mustang swallowed thickly. "But… if you don't want me to touch you again, I'll understand that too."

Hawkeye blinked once at the Colonel. "Go ahead and clean them," she answered lifelessly.

Hollow. Her voice was hollow, like she wasn't even there. This was _worse_ than he'd seen her in Ishval. This was as if somebody had reached inside her and turned all the lights off. Mustang felt his heart squeeze painfully at the thought and proceeded to drape the first, wet cloth across her back. She was silent, like before - and he couldn't stand it.

"Hawkeye."

Her voice was blank and lazy. "Yes?"

"Tell me something," Roy urged. A beat passed and still nothing. "How bad is the pain right now?"

The next towel went on smoothly, the water from its edges mixing in with red blood.

"I'll live," was all she said, but Mustang could see each muscle twitch with aftershock convulsions. He watched as Hawkeye rested a cheek against her pillow, and did all he could to be gentle as the next few towels were laid down.

"I'm sorry, Hawkeye," Mustang whispered, if only to keep his voice from breaking. "Please forgive me."

_Even if I don't deserve it._

But Hawkeye only listened.

The rest of the towels didn't take long to apply. Mustang covered her gently, being mindful of his movements. He made sure not to touch the bare skin with his fingertips, but with only the cloth. If anything, he'd been as precise as he originally wanted to be. The burn wounds gaped exclusively where they needed to, erasing any trace or evidence of what was his confounded Flame Alchemy.

_No alchemy is worth this. Not even mine._

When he was finished, Roy rubbed at his eyes, almost as if to ground out any lingering images of this wretched night. The man was exhausted, wobbling slightly even as he got to his feet. He noticed both of his gloves laying wrinkled on the floor in front of him, and instead of ripping them to shreds like he wanted, Mustang deposited each textured mitt into his pant's pocket and shuffled over to where Hawkeye propped herself again up to watch him.

"You should consider taking off more than five days from work," he said lamely. "Nobody has to know why. I doubt any will even _notice _if you're gone for that long."

Hawkeye nodded once, sweaty pieces of hair all matted against her forehead. "I will think about it."

In all truthfulness, Hawkeye looked even more tired than he _felt_. Her skin was paler than before, the dark circles below her eyes even more bold and daring. The brown freckles atop her cheeks had all but disappeared beneath the sweat covering them. Even the bronze glow of her irises seemed to have rusted, though despite all this, she was still _so_ beautiful.

Shit.

Ah… screw it.

Mustang was simply too drained to fight against these affectionate thoughts. He sighed long and deep, ignoring the sticky feel of his dress shirt clinging to him. "Is there anything more I can do for you?" he then asked the Lieutenant. She looked up at him reservedly.

"Like what, sir?"

"Well… whatever you want, of course. Is there anything you can think of?"

Silence.

"_Well_?"

"No, sir."

"Are you _sure_ there's nothing more I can do to help you?"

"Unless there's another tattoo back there that my father never told me about, I'm sure. But if there is, then by all means, _have at it_."

Mustang's jaw slackened at the harshness of her tone. It was icy and bitter, sounding like she would have rather spat out the words than let them pass through her lips. She sounded absolutely furious! And her eyes…

So _enraged_.

Mustang swallowed uneasily. "Lieutenant?"

Hawkeye laughed then, an odd gesture. Her dark chuckles soon turned into cackling, and as her manic eyes filled with tears, it finally hit him.

She wasn't laughing.

She was _crying._

Mustang waited patiently for her to calm, but she never did. Hawkeye's entire face suddenly crumpled in anguish, her pretty little features dissolving into a mask of irrefutable pain that resonated deeply with the Colonel. He rushed to her at once, sinking to his knees as the air around them filled with her mournful whimpers.

"Riza," he called out in between jagged breaths. "Riza, shh. It wasn't your fault. Okay? This was _never _your fault, Riza. Do you hear me?" The only response he got was more crying however, and in a moment of haste, Mustang grabbed one of her hands, instinctively covering her shaking fingers with both palms. He gently squeezed it then, finding a faint sense of satisfaction in the way she squeezed him back.

Roy leaned slightly forward, so that this chin was perched on the very edge of her mattress. He watched as countless tears stained each cheek, sliding down pale skin in torrents, where they dripped onto her braced forearms. When the sobs finally subsided, Mustang opened his mouth to speak again.

"It's over, Riza. Can't you see? It's finally over. You're _free_."

Hawkeye nodded brokenly in response, her wet eyes finding him amidst fresh tears. Roy smiled encouragingly at her and stroked the tips of his thumbs over each shaking knuckle in his grasp.

"It's alright to cry, you know. Don't ever feel ashamed to feel like this. But, Riza… you _must _know. You _have _to believe that none of this was your fault."

"I do," she replied in a gravelly voice. "I know it wasn't my fault. I always knew that. But, I… but _he_ - "

"Was still your father."

Her answer was a whisper. "Yes."

"And you loved him."

"_So_ much."

Mustang sighed long and deep, feeling a thousand years older than he had when the night had originally begun. "Riza, can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"How old were you… exactly?"

Hawkeye sniffed and ignored the Colonel as he untangled a hand from hers. "Fifteen," she said while he began cleaning her face of any stray tears. "I was fifteen years old."

"And now?" he asked cheekily. Hawkeye choked out a broken laugh.

"You _ass_."

Mustang grinned, privately in marvel at the softness of her cheeks. "Oh, Riza. You silly, silly girl. Just look how far you've come since then," he encouraged lightly. "You should be proud, frankly."

"As should you… _Fuhrer_."

They both grinned then, though his devilish smile faded as even more tears brimmed over her eyes. Mustang finally dropped his hand, using it to brush back his messy bangs in closed resignation. Moments passed, and it was like the tears just wouldn't _stop_. Mustang started to wonder if this was the first time she'd ever even mourned about this.

"Now it's my turn to ask you something, if you don't mind," she breathed out lowly.

He frowned at the seriousness in Hawkeye's tone. She started to look at him in that way again - that soul-stripping, lie-shattering way. It was so serious and so… _intimate_.

"Yes?"

Hawkeye frowned slightly. "Will you stay here with me tonight?"

By the time the words left her mouth, Mustang could tell that she had already been searching for an answer. He could feel practically _feel _his face freeze in place - especially his eyes, though they widened fractionally. Was she really being sincere? Roy said nothing at first, content to hold her gaze until realizing that Riza was _indeed_ genuine in her request. The steel had already returned to her visage, and she waited calmly for an answer.

She was serious.

"If that's what truly want," he assured slowly. "Can I ask why, though?"

Hawkeye's gaze fell then. "To be completely honest… I don't think I should be alone tonight - and I don't think _you_ should be either. "

Mustang shivered, but he also grinned nevertheless. "Does that mean I have to take the floor?"

He nearly laughed when she rolled her eyes at him. "Just listen, Roy. I know what tonight meant for you, okay? I can _see_ it on your face, and you're hurting just as much as I am."

His grin dissolved in an instant.

"And your point is?" he asked fearfully.

"My point is… _thank you_." Riza squeezed the hand that still held hers and smiled. "You don't know what you've given me."

And as the two wordlessly gazed into each other's face, Mustang that knew she was sincere in this as well. He didn't smile back, though he did take the time to tuck away any matted hair still stuck to her forehead.

"If it's all the same," he then mumbled stoically, "I'll feel better after a few hours of sleep."

"Me too."

Then, Mustang paused. "Actually… will you even be _able_ to rest like that?"

"I'll manage, Roy."

"You sure?"

Riza nodded in agreement. "Want me to push over, then?" But the question fell short when his eyes suddenly narrowed at her.

"What - are you _crazy_!? Do you have _any_ idea how damaged your back is right now? I just _ripped_ it open with _fire_ and now you want to _accommodate_ me?"

"Of course I _don't_! I was just trying to be—"

He was already on his feet, however, and glaring at her with a disapproving concern in his eyes.

"Shh. Don't move an _inch_ or you'll mess up my handiwork."

Riza snorted at the joke attempt and waited patiently as he lowered onto the bed.

"You know, you really shouldn't thank me for tonight," Mustang said while depressing his weight beside her. He shifted carefully, and after a few more moments of effort, was settled in on his side, both arms curled out in front of his chest. Riza looked at him amusedly.

"And why not?"

"Because," he explained after kicking off his shoes, "My reasons for helping you were entirely selfish. I might start to feel guilty if you keep up this grateful streak."

Mustang yawned sleepily then, already soothed by the body heat so close to his own. He grinned contentedly at Hawkeye, who merely raised an eyebrow in response.

"Want to elaborate on that?" Her breath tickled his face.

Roy couldn't help but yawned again. "It's simple. Your father _was_ right about one thing: his research is dangerous."

"I know that," Riza muttered, but the gentle gaze of his eyes silenced her further.

"_Someone_ would have eventually come looking for it. I don't know why or when, but it was guaranteed to happen. Well… what if I couldn't protect you when the time came? What if I wasn't in a position to keep you safe? What if I just wasn't _strong_ enough?" As he spoke, her knowing gaze pierced through him, and Mustang flushed, all too aware of how close their faces were.

"I won't lose you like that," he ended defiantly. "I won't. I can't afford it."

Long moments passed by in heavy understanding, and Riza reached for his hand again.

"You were right. That _was_ selfish of you."

Mustang nodded slightly. "Yes. But it's also the truth." He shimmied closer to her then, feeling his own body accept every facet and angle of their odd positions. Him on his side, and Riza on her stomach. Kind of like a puzzle.

How fitting.

"I'm going to sleep now," she whispered drowsily at him. "You should too."

Mustang shut his eyes at once. "Mhm. You don't have to tell _me_ twice."

"Good. And… Roy?"

"Hm?"

"I just want you to know that if you _ever_ speak of this night again, I will kill you."

"Oh? Would you really shoot me, Lieutenant?"

"Absolutely."

"… _Where_?"

"In the face. I would shoot you in your face."

Mustang grinned wickedly then and opened his eyes to see her bronze gaze already glaring back at him. He squeezed their palms together and chuckled heartily.

"Alright, Lieutenant. This will be our little secret. I promise."

"Uh-huh. Please _keep_ it that way."

Roy would have laughed again but a yawn interrupted him, and then he was soon acquiescing to the night's heady call. As he drifted away, only one thing remained on his mind, and like a prayer, it filled his heart with peace and carried him beyond the veil of tonight's horrific events. Beyond _everything_. Well, it wasn't a thing actually - just a word.

Just one.

_Riza._


End file.
